


solatium

by Siria



Category: Firefly, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: cliche_bingo, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-07
Updated: 2009-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's matter-of-fact about her beauty, stripping without haste or deliberate indulgence. Ronon likes that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	solatium

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sheafrotherdon for audiencing. Written for cliche_bingo for the prompt 'There's a first time for everything: First Times'.

She's matter-of-fact about her beauty, stripping without haste or deliberate indulgence. Ronon likes that. He lies back on the bed and watches with quiet appreciation as Zoe removes clothing and weaponry and toes her way out of her boots. She stacks them in a neat pile on the low unit beside his bed; there's nothing fussy in the way she folds her shirt, but there's a care to it that tells Ronon she knows what it's like to have to make-do with clothes that are more patches and darns than anything else. Only when she's fully naked does she reach up to untie the leather thong that's holding her hair back from her face; the curls tumble to fall halfway down her back, and when she sits on the bed next to Ronon, he can see the threads of grey here and there in the rich brown.

"What do you want?" she asks, and there's neither aggression nor wariness in her question. Like everything else about Zoe, her desire exists without preamble, and the palm of her hand is cool and callused where it rests on Ronon's chest. It eases something in him—some tight, trapped thing that feels as if it's been straining against the cage of his ribs for far too long—to know that she attaches no preconditions to the warmth that's sparked between them on an autumn's day, that she doesn't balk at the fact that it's been years for him since there was anyone other than his own hand, that she welcomes the possibility of pleasure between them even though she's lost someone, too.

He doesn't answer her, not with words, but takes her hand and draws her down to lie on the bed next to him. Zoe goes without demur, resting her head next to his on the pillow and watching his face while she runs a hand down his side from shoulder to mid-thigh. He smiles at her, then mimics the gesture, letting his hand linger over the smooth skin of her hip, the scars that ripple over her belly. He can feel her exhale when he touches her there, slow and easy, and he grins because he knows how good this is going to be. "Like this?" he asks her, and when Zoe nods at him, Ronon leans in and kisses her.

It's not the first time they've kissed, but it's the first time it's been like this—the two of them together, skin to skin, their caution less than their wanting—and Ronon's skin prickles with the heat of it. He's fully hard by the time Zoe gently pushes him over onto his back and straddles him. There's no aggression in the move, no attempt at swagger—Ronon can tell, from the half-smile on her face, that this is the position that works best for her. He can feel her, already wet against his belly, and when he rubs his fingers at just the right spot between her legs, Zoe's head rolls back on her neck and her groan of pleasure is visceral enough to force the air from Ronon's lungs.

"Good?" he asks her when he can breathe again, and she nods, grinding down when he offers her the heel of his palm.

"I need depth," she tells him when she rises back up on her knees. For just a moment, Ronon is proud that he's the one responsible for the tense note in her voice—in Zoe, the woman who's been a straight-backed enigma ever since she and her crew crash-landed on the Lantean mainland—but then she lowers herself down onto him in one long, easy movement, and it's all Ronon can do to stop his eyes from rolling in his head. There's no thought that can stand against the shock and pleasure of that, no string of words that Ronon can marshall to keep his thoughts in line when faced with _hot_ and _wet_ and _tight_, so he focuses instead on keeping his breathing steady and giving her what she wants. He wraps his hands around her hips, lightly rubs circles there with his thumbs and lets himself go as deep as he can, working his hips up and up until Zoe's body is pleasure-curved above his and Ronon's skin is beaded with sweat.

He can feel the moment when she starts to come apart around him for the first time—the sudden clench of her, her bitten-off gasp—and he takes that as permission to let his hands roam, his palms gliding over the strong muscles of her thighs, the slightly-rounded lines of her belly, the sweet curves of her breasts with their tight nipples. "Yes," she says, "like, like that," and Ronon isn't sure that Zoe's entirely with him anymore—if she's seeing starlight rather than the glow of twilight outside his bedroom windows—but the smile on her face is broad and startlingly beautiful and he can tell she's glorying in the pleasure they're creating together.

"Now," she says, and Ronon thrusts up, as deep inside her as he can possibly be, and he bites hard at his lower lip to stop himself from coming as he holds himself there while Zoe orgasms. He lies there and watches her, getting off on the sated smile she gives him as much as anything else, and when she finally goes limp above him, Ronon rolls her over onto her back and kisses her neck, her collarbone, suckles at her right breast before he starts to thrust into her again.

He forces himself to increase his pace slowly, and he thinks Zoe appreciates that—her hips roll against his, her thighs come up to bracket him, holding him against her, and the friction of it is enough to make Ronon squeeze his eyes shut against how good it all feels. He can't concentrate—feels as if there's no barrier now between his self and his body, each neuron of his replaced by the nerves that spark when she touches him, the ache of his muscles and the hitch in his breath a comfort, a reminder that he's not alone—and when the slow-banked burn of heat in his belly finally spills over into release, he jerks so hard against her that the springs in the mattress squeak in protest and Zoe laughs into his mouth.

They're neither of them big talkers—not now, not anymore—and so they say little as they lie there, arms around one another, breathing slowing and sweat cooling on their skin; less when their legs tangle together and the gun calluses on Zoe's fingers are pleasingly rough against Ronon's cock, when Ronon ducks under the sheet and uses fingers and tongue and the scratch of his beard to make her swear and buck up against him not once but twice. They don't say anything at all when the moons are high in the Lantean sky and they finally relax against one another, muscles pleasantly aching, but Ronon understands what Zoe's saying in the careful way her fingertips traces the freckles that meander the length of his arms. He hopes she can read his reply in the way he tugs the blanket up over them and creates a space for her to lay her head against his shoulder—can understand that he's saying _I know what it's like; it gets better; here, there's a place to rest._


End file.
